'You'll do no such thing,' she said, fighting through her emotional turmoil. 'I killed that man.'
'Don't be a fool, woman-' Jones began, but she turned on him next.
'And what have you done but thunder and threaten to kill the devil yourself, and fumed with frustration that your daughter had to be sent away while he still lorded it over the village? I heard you a thousand times and, yes, so have your children and, for all I know, your neighbors. Where there's the power of words, you are a murderer. And God help me, so am I, because in my heart I wanted to see him dead.'
They stared at each other.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rutledge saw Miss O'Hara step out her own door and move into her garden, her hands clasping her elbows and hugging her arms to her chest.
Jones had turned to Rutledge and was repeating what he'd claimed earlier. 'I killed the man. Let it be done with.'
'You're a stubborn Welshman, Hugh Ioan Jones. Do you hear that? ' his wife accused.
He said, for the first time showing gentleness, 'What would you have me do, love, let you hang in my place?'
She began to cry. 'I just want things to be the way they were. I want to go back to when we were safe and the only worry was how to feed the next mouth.'
He crossed the room and gathered her in his arms. 'I'd do anything for you, love. Die for you, even.'
She was not a woman of beauty. Time and childbearing had worn her down, and worry had added lines to her face and drawn the color from it.
'There were times I wondered,' she said, then pushed him away. 'Go to your daughter, Hugh Jones, and then come home to your dinner. I doubt it's edible now. But we'll eat it anyway.'
He held her for a moment, then without a word went down the passage to find Gwyneth.
Mrs. Jones looked up at Rutledge. 'We're a sorry lot, bragging of being murderers. And you still aren't sure, are you?'
Rutledge asked wryly, 'Are you? '
She said simply, 'If he'd killed Harold Quarles, he wouldn't have touched me. He'd have gone directly to Gwynnie, for fear he'd break down.'
It was a woman's reasoning, but Rutledge nodded. Whether or not it cleared Hugh Jones was another matter.
She sighed. 'I'll go fetch the children and set out our dinner. I doubt any of us will swallow more than a spoonful.'
He let her go, and waited. After a time, Hugh walked into the parlor without his daughter.
'She'll come home in her own time. I'll ask Miss O'Hara if she minds keeping her a little longer.'
He walked past Rutledge and went out the door.
Rutledge waited, and in ten minutes, her face washed and her hair brushed, Gwyneth Jones stepped shyly into the parlor.
The resilience of youth, he thought.
'The selfishness of the young,' Hamish countered. 'She got what she wants, even if no one else did.'
She was indeed a pretty girl, despite the dark circles beneath her eyes and the strain in them only just easing. In a small voice she apologized to Rutledge for being so troublesome, and then looked around for Miss O'Hara.
'She's in the garden. She wanted to give your family a little privacy.'
Gwyneth nodded and went out.
After a time, Miss O'Hara walked back in her own house and shut the door behind her.
'Well,' she said, hands shoved into the pockets of the short jacket she was wearing, 'all this drama has made me hungry. You'll take me to The Unicorn to dine. I'll expect you in half an hour, and let the gossips be damned.'
He found himself laughing.
And then realized that she was quite serious.
The next morning, Padgett met Rutledge at the dining room door as he was leaving after his breakfast.
Padgett followed him into Reception and said, 'The rumor mill has been busy. I hear you had dinner with the lovely Miss O'Hara. Won't look good in London, will it, if you have to take her into custody for murder.'
'I doubt she killed Quarles because he flirted with her in the street.'
'Oh, ho! She's already in the clear-' He held up a hand before Rutledge could make the retort that Padgett saw coming. 'Never mind. We've got a far different problem. The baker, Hugh Jones, is in the station wanting to make a statement.'
Rutledge swore silently. 'Let him make whatever statement he cares to write down and sign. But we'll not take any action on it until I'm satisfied he isn't lying.'
'His girl's come home. He thinks that makes him your favorite suspect.'
'And it does. But I haven't yet been able to show he knew she'd left her grandmother's. If Jones killed Quarles without knowing she was leaving Wales, it was coincidence.'
'She'd written him that she was unhappy there. He just told me as much. He might have been clearing the way for her to come.'
Rutledge considered Padgett. 'Do you really think Hugh Jones is our murderer?'
'Better him than me,' Padgett said tersely. Then he added, 'I don't see him leaving his family destitute. And he would. Still, if Quarles goaded him, who knows what he might have forgotten in the heat of the moment? He's a strong man, mind you.'
'There's something else I want to speak to you about. Let's walk.'
They went outside where they couldn't be heard. Rutledge said, 'This business with Brunswick leaves me unsatisfied.'
'Whether he killed his wife or she killed herself?'
'In a way. Sunday, when we were discussing past murders here in Cambury, you told me about a young soldier returning from the war who believed his wife had been unfaithful. He knocked her down and killed her.'
'Yes, he claimed it was in a fit of temper.'
'Who was the man he suspected of sleeping with her?'
Padgett frowned. 'We never knew. He told me he'd killed his wife, and there was the end of it. Gossip claimed it was a lorry driver who'd been seen about the place from time to time, but he turned out to be her brother. And after killing her, the husband wasn't about to besmirch her good name. Odd business, but for all I know, the war turned his mind, and it was all in his imagination. There was no talk about her before he came home.'
'Could the other man have been Harold Quarles? There's a rumor about a mistress. Was she this woman? Or is his mistress just wishful thinking on the part of busybodies?'
Padgett's eyebrows flew up. 'Quarles? Somehow I don't see it. And nor did the gossips. But there's her farm, and this business of him playing squire when he first came to Hallowfields. It could have begun that way. What put you on to that possibility?'
'Thinking last night about Brunswick and his wife.'
Padgett shook his head. 'The soldier's wife was quite pretty. But water over the dam, now. Nothing we can do about it, even if it was Quarles.'
'It might explain why Brunswick was so certain his own wife was unfaithful. There was precedent.'
'I put that down to his naturally jealous nature. But you never know. Dr. O'Neil is releasing Stephenson today. With orders not to open the shop for the rest of the week.'
'I've spoken to the Army. Stephenson's son died in France of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Has the rector been to see him?'
'Yes, according to O'Neil, Mr. Heller was there for nearly an hour. And he said that afterward, Stephenson appeared to be in a better frame of mind. We seem to be at a standstill. Do you think we'll find our man? ' He was serious now, and his eyes were on Rutledge's face, trying to read his thoughts.
'We'll find him,' Rutledge answered grimly. 'Whoever did this went to great lengths to leave behind no
